A Hard Rain's a Gonna Fall
by WingFetish
Summary: A part of him aches to stay, despite everything, but Sam knows in his gut that it’s now or never, and he wasn’t lying when he said he just couldn’t live this life any longer.


Disclaimer: I own neither _Supernatural_, nor _A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall_. Those belong to Kripke and Bob Dylan respectively. I'm not making any money on this, I'm just trying to improve my writing skills. Please don't sue!

A/N: The prompt for this fic comes from InfamousFaete and reads, "It is Sammy's last night at home before he leaves for the big bad college. No one is happy." She also gets a grateful shout-out for being my beta. It's a job which I'm betting, at times, is a painful and torturous experience. Thanks m'dear, I am forever grateful! Another shout-out goes to SavvyAngel for her wonderful opinions and input. One last note, for those of you who know the song at the beginning and end of this fic, you will recognize that the ellipses mark missing lyrics. For those who haven't heard the song, I highly recommended it.

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"**A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall"**

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_Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?..._

_I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,_

_And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,_

_And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall._

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_It figures_ _that there'd be a storm tonight_, Sam thinks. The sound of thunder grows closer and louder, rattling the walls a bit. Sam feels a heavy weight settling on his chest as he looks down at the letter he holds in his hands. It tells him he's to report for orientation in two days.

As he sits, perched on the foot of his bed, Sam wonders where the last couple of months have gone. _Shit_. He shakes his head, and a mop of brown hair falls into his eyes. _So stupid._ He berates himself, and puts his head in his hands, sighing. _Shouldn't have waited so long_. But it wasn't like he had **meant **put it off this far. There just hadn't ever seemed a good time to bring up, was all. After a particularly violent poltergeist last month and a more recent researching debacle involving near-fatal misinformation about this latest creature, to say things had been on edge in the Winchester household of late would have been putting it lightly.

So Sam had been waiting, anxiously, for this last hunt to end before springing the news. It was obvious now that the hunt was going to take far longer than Sam had left in this small town. He gulps, shifting papers and looking down at his ticket, which shows a trip scheduled for tomorrow morning. He glances over at his bags, neatly packed and placed beside him on the bed. Every earthy possession Sam owns fits neatly into his two small duffels and backpack. He's leaving his guns of course, _no need for those at school_,and that gives him an extra bit of room. Sam's not stupid though, he's still bringing his knives, some holy water, and various protective odds and ends. They are easily concealed and besides, Sam has always been a firm believer in the mantra "better safe than sorry."

He hears the front door open, and there's a short, tense conversation which follows. The familiar sounds of equipment settling and wet boots hitting the floor tell Sam that his Dad is back. _Finally._ Sam closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath in, relieved to know his father is safe. But the feeling quickly passes back to one of anxiety, as now he's forced to announce his plans. Sam claps his hands to his knees and stands up tall. There's no putting this off any longer, it has to be done. _C'mon_, he psyches himself up with some humor; _this is what separates the men from the boys._

So absorbed is Sam in his own thoughts, that he fails to hear approaching footsteps in the hallway, and is utterly startled when his brother cuts him off at the bedroom door.

"Hey Sammy," Dean starts, leaning into the room, "Dad's ba– " He stops short, hands still placed on either side of the doorframe, and takes in the scene – the stark and stripped room, the neatly packed bags, the tightly clutched letter, and Sam's undeniably distressed and guilty expression.

A flash of lighting captures Dean's reaction in a single, frozen, and unguarded moment. It's an expression filled with recognition, confusion, anger, and _is that fear?_ But it's gone again before the lighting even goes dim. Had Sam blinked, he would have missed it.

Sam's mind is numb with shock. He gapes just a moment too long and Dean tears away from the door, throwing himself down the hallway.

Outside, the storm is growing fast. Sam rushes after Dean, and their hard footsteps are echoed by a loud crash of thunder which shakes the house to its very foundation. Sam halts his pursuit only after he sees his father detaining his brother at the front door. Dean is fighting to get past, but John is having none of it. Normally Dean's leaving would be a non-issue, but with Sam's brother sporting a broken rib, the very last thing John wants is an injured, angry, and off-kilter Dean out in this weather with an as-of-yet unidentified supernatural being around. Sam notices the rain driving in through the partially-opened front door, and is glad John stopped Dean. He turns his focus to what his father is saying.

Sam catches the tail end of the statement, which is something like, "work that needs to be done." _Right. _Work that really needed to have been finished yesterday. But right now, Dean's so angry he's not seeing straight, and John shakes him once, demanding to know what's going on. John knows, if Dean is like this, if his son is this visibly upset, this uninterested in the hunt, then something is absolutely and terrifyingly **wrong**. Dean, for his part, reacts to the sharp movement and snaps back-to-attention, turning to glare across the room at Sam. In response, Sam takes a short step back, bracing himself for the coming onslaught.

John shoves Dean away from the door and closes it hard. Then, his voice low but filled with concern, he demands an answer from both his boys. When said response is unsurprisingly unforthcoming, he tries again.

"Tell me what's happened." There's a long, heavy, and awkward pause. The next time, John's voice betrays both his impatience and anxiety, "Dean! Sam! _Tell me what is going on_." Sam finally tears his eyes from his brother, who is blatantly and frustratingly refusing to meet Sam's eyes, and looks over at their father.

"I…" Sam stops, suddenly unsure how to proceed. The speech he had created for this precise moment has inexplicably vanished from his mind. His breathing is loud and echoes in his ears, and he frantically grasps for something to fill the silence. "_I'mLeavingInTheMorning._" Is what finally tumbles out, louder and faster than he would have liked. He cringes a bit at the delivery, and then watches as the statement sink in.

"What?" John responds, turning back to look at Sam. He's been caught off-guard, but John's short tone sounds more like he's simply tired or exasperated. Once he has realized no physical danger or injury is at hand, John's anxiety with the situation fades. He is still, however, expecting an answer.

Sam glances at Dean, who's leaning against the wall with his head down and jaw set, scuffing his toe and trying to stare a hole through the floor. He's got that frown on his face which means he's deep in thought. But Sam knows Dean is still listening, because he wants answers from Sam as much as their father does.

Sam looks over at John, who back looks impatiently. Sam shifts, licks his lips, then clears his throat and tries again.

"I'm leaving." He says, relieved to find his voice is even and steady, "Going to school. I've been accepted at Stanford. They offered me a full ride." Sam pauses and sets his jaw. "Orientation is in two days, and I'm catching a bus to Palo Alto first thing tomorrow morning."

"The hell you are." John's irritated response is instantaneous, leaping forth the second Sam stops speaking. Sam blinks hard, although if he's honest with himself, he can't say he's surprised with the intensity of John's reaction. Bristling, Sam stares at his father. John sighs, rubs a hand at the base of his neck, he's not aiming for a fight, even if Sam is. "Sammy," he starts, and then pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, Sam, we don't have time for this right now. There's a hunt that needs finishing. We can talk about it another time, but for right now, you can just go unpack."

Sam shakes his head. "No, I told you Dad, I'm leaving tomorrow."  
"And I've said you're not! This just isn't the _time_ for this Sam. Maybe, _maybe_ in a couple years…it could be. We'll have to wait and see. But right now there's just too much to do. _Right now_, have a dangerous _thing_ on the loose out there. Innocent people are _dying_, Sam, and it's our job to stop it." His father moves a few steps from the door. Dean, on the other hand, still hasn't moved. Frankly, Sam's surprised at that. Usually Dean is right in the middle of their arguments, distracting them, pulling them apart before the conversation gets too heated. _But then_, Sam thinks, _that's usually_. Usually, he isn't trying to hop a bus cross-country.

Outside, the rain has become a torrential downpour, and the sound of it beating down mercilessly is all around them. Sam's voice rises to match pitch as he forces the conversation forward.

"There's always something that needs stopping, Dad. There's never going to _be_ a better time!"

"Sam! It's this isn't up for debate."

There's a thundering deep within Sam's chest and outside lightning flashes and cracks in time with Sam's anger.

"_No!_ Dad! _No!_ You don't get it. _I'm not asking your_ _permission!_ I'm _telling_ you – I'm going. I'm going to school!"

"And I'm telling you that so long as you're a part of this family, you'll follow orders! Now go, unpack your things, and do your damn job!"

"Screw the _job, _Dad. I'm sick of the _job_! Motel rooms and broken-down houses, never staying in one place! I'm tired of _lying _to everyone we meet. I want to go somewhere I won't have to go into graveyards in the middle of the night or dig up _bodies_. It's no way to live! We're constantly in danger and I'm always afraid, wondering which one of us is gonna' end up hurt or _killed_!" Sam's head is still ringing from the shouting as he takes a few heaving breaths and steamrolls on. "You're so preoccupied with your damn _crusade_! Well it's _your_ obsession, Dad. Not mine. I have a choice now and I'm telling you I'm leaving. This isn't going to be my life!"

"Sam! Dean and I…we need you here." John's face darkens, and his voice drops dangerously low. "But I guess that if our life isn't good enough for you, then _we _aren't good enough for you, am I right?" At this, Sam visibly deflates. No matter how angry he is, Sam can't have his dad or Dean thinking _that_.

"That's n–"

"You want to leave? Then go, Sam, go and get your things."

"Bu –"

"You've made it clear. No one's stopping you, right? What are you waiting for? _Go._" At this, Dean pushes himself off the wall in disbelief and Sam barrels back to his bedroom in a rage. Fuming, he grabs his bags in one violent sweep, and storms back to the living room.

He stops in the entrance-way and looks at his father and at his brother. Now that he's really leaving, Sam has no idea what to say. There's just so much running around in his head, he doesn't think he can settle on any one thing. He shifts the straps on his shoulder, and decides to try anyway.

"Look, I…I meant to tell you sooner, it just…I just…" He stalls and gives up then, realizing there is nothing he can say that will diffuse the tension in the room. He runs a hand through his hair, looks back and forth between Dean and his father. There's an uncomfortable silence until, "Well…I guess I, um, I guess I'll see you in a couple of months then." When there is no response from either member of his family, he nods, and moves. He's making his way over to the front door when his father speaks again.

"No, Sam. You won't. You walk out that door…that's it." It brings Sam up short, and he turns, expression betraying his wounded feeling. But John continues, "If you leave, then you're abandoning this family." Sam's emotions turn to outrage as John gives the final ultimatum. There is a slight hitch in his voice, but he means every word: "If you go, Sam, if you go…you _stay_ gone."

Sam's hand stalls on the doorknob. He is sure he can feel a part of his soul breaking, and for a moment, he has absolutely no idea what he's going to do. Sam lowers his head, and his shoulders shake in an effort to keep himself from falling apart. He looks back up, and feels his eyes burning with unshed tears.

"_Dad._" He implores, voice cracking, "_Dean._" Sam focuses on his brother. _Please. Don't agree. Please, just say something!_ Dean's mouth opens slightly, and for a second Sam thinks Dean heard his silent plea. But Dean just looks between his father and Sam and shuts his jaw, offering nothing. _He agrees with Dad._ Sam thinks, and once the explanation is in his mind he can not accept any other reason for Dean's silence.

A part of Sam desperately aches to stay, despite everything. But he **knows** in his gut that it's _now or never_, and Sam wasn't lying when he said he couldn't live this life any longer.

He reasons that his family is better off without him around, anyway. Sam knows he couldn't leave if he believed otherwise. But the truth of the matter is that his father and brother are far better hunters than Sam will ever be. In fact, it seems to him the majority of Dean and John's injuries come from close calls involving Sam, rather than from inadequacies or mistakes of their own. No, they'd be just fine without the added distraction he posed on a hunt Sam tilts and shakes his head in an effort to stave off tears. _This is it then._

Turning the knob, Sam looks at his family one last time. He wracks his brain for something to say, anything to make it all right again, but there's absolutely nothing that can fix _this_. Finally, painfully, he tears his gaze away and over to the door. He pauses for a single, excruciating moment. Then he's launching himself outside and into the rain.

Sam heads for the road, and doesn't look back once. If he looks back, he'll stop, and once he's done that, Sam doesn't think he'll be able to start again. He hears the splashing of boots through mud behind him. _Dean_. But he can't stop, not now. After a few more agonizing steps forward the noise stops.

Sam tells himself the wetness blurring his vision and soaking his face is just from the rain, which is so thick it's like a curtain falling down around him. He tells himself that he can't turn back now. He tells himself whatever he has to in order to keep going. He takes several more steps, and he he's reached the street.

It's still pouring when he hits the main road. Sam looks up at the tormented sky, and thinks of the storm's dark irony. After so many years, that part of Sam's life which began in fire is finally meeting an end in rain. He blinks as rain falls into his eyes, and his short-term predicament settles upon him. There will be plenty of time to digest the enormity of what he has done after he gets where he's going. But right now, he just needs to get out of the bad weather.

Unfortunately, it is far too late to be early, and yet much too early to be late. Needless to say, there aren't many cars on the road. Local buses don't run at this hour, and it's quite a walk to the station. His bags aren't helping matters. By the time someone takes pity on him and pulls over to offer him a ride, he's soaked, chilled to the bone, shivering, and well-near collapse.

Sam exhaustedly watches the beat up Ford slow to a stop just ahead of him.

"Hey!" The driver yells as Sam walks up. "Where are you tryin' ta get to, kid?"

"Ah. The bus station? But anywhere closer to there would be great."

"Well, hell! That's exit before mine. Hop on in! Just throw your stuff in the back, there." Sam does as instructed, placing his bags next to wet, brown boxes. They are full of random odds and ends, things you might find at a flea market like mirrors and statues. One even looks like it holds an old chalice of some kind.

"Thank you." He says gratefully, sliding himself into the passenger's seat.

"No problem. Couldn't in good conscience let yeh lug all that in this rain. Least it's lettin' up a bit though." The driver keeps speaking as he pulls onto the road. "Name's Stan, by the way."

"Um, Sam. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too." They drive in silence for a time. Then Stan says, "So, Sam, you leavin' town? At this time a night?"

"Oh. Uh, yes and no. My bus is in the morning."

"Ah, well now that makes more sense. Where ya headed to?" Sam's head is resting against the glass of the window and tired as he is, he answers, "Um, Palo Alto, California. I'm heading out to Stanford for school."

Stan gives a short whistle. "Whew. Your Daddy must be real proud of ya." Sam shifts in his seat, awkwardly. He's doesn't want to have this conversation, now.

"You'd think so, right?" He answers, because this guy did give him a ride, after all.

"Oh, sorry." Stan says, "I'm guessing he's the reason you were out enjoyin' this fine weather in the middle of the night, then?"

Sam gives a half-hearted laugh, to avoid another awkward silence. "How'd you guess?"

"Ah, well, my Dad's bit of a bastard himself."

Sam turns his head to respond, but anything he might have said catches in his throat. For a second, he's sure Stan's eyes are completely black. But then Stan blinks and looks over as he asks, "Sorry, did you say somethin'?" And of course, his eyes are completely normal.

Sam shakes his head no, but remains mute. _How can you be sure –? _His mind is reeling.He's tempted to say "_Christo_." It's a force of habit, but he firmly reasons his way out of it, making it a point of passage. _This is exactly the kind of fear and paranoia you have to get away from_. He tells himself. Sam rubs at his own eyes. He's tired, and on edge. Stan's wearing a hat and they're practically in the dark. Besides, he can see the bus station from here. _See? _He tells himself, as Stan pulls off._ You're being ridiculous. Nothing supernatural is going to pick you up and just let you loose at a bus station._

He still can't help but feel slightly uncomfortable until he slides completely out of the truck with a quick, "Thanks again," and Stan drives off. As the truck disappears back onto the road, he breathes a deep sigh of relief.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon as Sam settles on a bench outside, under an overhang. By the time he boards his bus the rain has stopped completely. The sun has risen and his things are almost dry.

He settles into his seat, allowing himself a moment to just rest. Sam's soul is wounded, and it weighs heavy on his chest as he watches houses, fields, and woods go by in a blur. He wrestles with an onslaught of emotion until his eyelids, too, become undeniably heavy.

_Next stop, Stanford_, he sighs, resting his head against his arm. When he finally closes his eyes, he falls deep into dreams he won't remember when he wakes. By the end of the trip, Sam is so lost in sleep that he misses it entirely when they pass Stan's old pickup, pulled over on the side of the road behind a bright, cheerful sign which reads, "Welcome to Palo Alto, California."

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_And what did you hear, my darling young one?_

_I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin'…_

_And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,_

_And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall._

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End file.
